Part 23

“Still, M. Goefle, you saw the supposed phantom come out from behind the map of Sweden that covers that masonry?”

“Oh, that was only a dream! Go and look, Christian. You will be more successful than I was, if you can find a practicable door there. Do you think I did not go and examine the place as soon as the vision disappeared?”

“Of course,” said Christian, who had already ascended the stairs, raised the map of Sweden, and was rapping at different parts of the wall beneath it. “There’s nothing here but a wall as thick as the rest, if I can judge by the dulness of the sound. The red paint also is accurately matched, and well laid on across the joinings; but did you notice, M. Goefle, how this plaster is scratched in the middle here?”

“Yes; I thought it had been done by a rat!”

“Very strange sort of work for a rat! Do you see what regular little circles he has traced on the wall?”

“True; but what of it?”

“Every effect has a cause; that is what I am seeking. Did you not say that among the sounds you had heard there was a scratching?”

“Yes; a grinding, as if of some tool.”

“Well, do you know what I think it was? Some feeble or unskilful hand trying to break a hole in the wall, and look through.”

“It must have been with a nail, then, or something still smaller, for the scratch in the plaster is certainly not more than two lines deep.”

“Not so much; and yet it has been cut into perseveringly in many places.”

“Stenson may have made those marks, to fix in his mind something or other that he did not choose to write down. Come, you must know how to decipher all sorts of lapidary inscriptions.”

“I know enough to say that it is no inscription, and belongs to no known language. I hold to my idea, that it was an attempt to pierce the wall. See, in each place there is a small hole with bevelled edges, made with a blunt instrument, and around it a circle, scratched into the white of the plaster, as if a pair of scissors had been used, after the fashion of a pair of dividers, but with one prong--that serving as the feeble support--broken.”

“You are ingenious.”

“Ingenious enough for that; do you see that little pile of white dust recently fallen on the upper stair?”

“Well?”

“Well, this person--whoever you may choose to consider her, an illustrious captive, or an old servant, who runs about the building at all hours--came here last night; not for the first time, but for the twentieth at least--to try and look through this wall. Or, stay--better yet! She knows there is a secret there--some invisible means of opening this invisible door--and she is searching, and feeling, and digging, to try and discover it. If we watch her to-night we shall find a clue to the mystery.”

“Upon my word, that is a good idea, and I accept it the more willingly because it relieves my mind of a real burden. Instead of being a seer of visions, I should then have seen a real person. I very much prefer to think it is so, although I am a little ashamed of myself for having had any doubts on the subject. However, Christian, I must tell you one thing frankly. I do not believe there is any prisoner here, for, in that case, there would have to be a prison and a jailer. Now this room was open on both sides when you arrived, since you came in by one door and went out by the other, and there is no one for a jailer except Stenson, who is honest and devoted.”

“But the baroness was certainly imprisoned here with more or less severity, and your honest Stenson was employed here then--”

“No, it has never been made to appear that there was any actual imprisonment; and even if it were so, Stenson was not master of Stollborg at that time. Now, when he alone has charge of it, for I presume you do not count Ulphilas as anybody--”

“Say what you like, M. Goefle, there is some mystery here; and whatever it is, whether great or trifling, I mean to solve it. But, great heavens, what am I thinking about! Time is passing, Puffo does not come back, and here I am amusing myself by inventing a romance when I ought to be thinking about the one I am to perform! I knew, M. Goefle, that when you made me eat, you would set me talking and make me forget my work!”

“Well, well, my boy, make your preparations, then. I promised to help you, you know!”

“You can’t help me, M. Goefle, I must have my assistant. I’ll go and look him up.”

“Very well, go then. In the meanwhile I will go and see Stenson, to whom I have not yet had leisure to pay my respects, and who probably does not know I am here. He never comes into these premises--”

“Ah, I beg your pardon, M. Goefle, he does. He came in here only a little while ago. I saw him while you had gone out. There; I forgot to tell you of it. He took me either for the devil or for a ghost, for he was in an awful fright, and made his escape stumbling, and absolutely out of his wits with terror.”

“Pshaw! Really? Is he so much of a coward as that? But I have no right to laugh at him, after imagining that I saw the _Gray Lady_. He certainly cannot have taken you for her!”

“I don’t know who he took me for--perhaps for the ghost of Baron Adelstan.”

“What? Well, it is possible. There is his portrait, opposite to his wife’s; it is much of your size and figure. Still--in that costume--”

“I had not put it on. I was still in your black clothes.”

“Why, what are you doing now? Masking?”

“No, I only put my mask on my head in case I should have to go as far as to the new chateau to find Puffo.”

“Let me see the mask--it must be very unpleasant.”

“Not at all; it is on a plan of my own; light and supple, all of silk, and lifting upon the head like the visor of a cap that can be put up or down at pleasure. When raised and hidden by my hat, it at least helps to hide my hair, which is so thick that it would attract attention. When it is down--I find it very comfortable, by the way, in this climate--it is in no danger of falling, and I am not annoyed by being constantly obliged to tie and untie a ribbon, which, moreover, is liable to break or become entangled. See what a neat invention it is!”

“Excellent! But your voice--how will you keep from being recognized by that?”

“Oh, that is my talent, my specialty! You know it very well, for you have been present at one of my performances.”

“True. I would have taken my oath that there were a dozen of you in the box. I must see you this evening, by the way; I shall go and sit with the audience, but I don’t want to know the piece beforehand. Well, good luck to you, my boy! I’m going to try and extract some explanation out of old Sten about my apparition. But what is that cypress-bough that you are putting on the frame of the _Gray Lady’s_ picture?”

“That is another thing that I forgot to tell you. M. Stenson brought it. I don’t know what he meant to do with it, but he threw it down at my feet; and whatever his intention was, I am going to make a memorial offering of it to this poor Baroness Hilda.”

“You may be sure, Christian, that this was also the intention of the good old man. It is either to-morrow or to-day--stay a moment; I have a good memory for dates--_Mon Dieu!_ this very day is the anniversary of the death of the baroness. That accounts for Sten’s prevailing on himself to come here, to offer some prayer or other.”

“Then,” said Christian, as he detached the little slip of parchment which M. Goefle had taken for a ribbon from the branch around which it was rolled, “see if you can explain the verses of the Bible that are written on that. My time is so short that I will go without waiting now.”

“Stay,” said M. Goefle, who had put on his spectacles to read the slip of parchment; “if you go as far as to the new chateau, and find Master Nils, who has not come back here to attend to my lunch, will you do me the pleasure to take him by one ear and bring him along with you?”

Christian promised to bring him, alive or dead, but he did not have to go very far to find both his own valet and M. Goefle’s. He went into the stable, where it occurred to him to look before leaving the court, and there he found Puffo and Nils snoring side by side, and both of them equally drunk. Ulphilas, who could bear liquor better, was walking backward and forward about the place, very well satisfied at not being left alone at nightfall, and from time to time casting a fraternal eye upon the two comrades of his revel. Christian saw how things had gone. Nils, who understood both Swedish and Dalecarlian, had acted as interpreter between the two drunkards, and their growing friendship had been cemented in the cellar. The poor little valet did not require much of a trial to become quite oblivious of his master, even supposing that he had been distressing himself particularly about him before. Now, he was lying warm and snug in the dry moss which they use for litter in that country, with cheeks red and nose on fire, and, as well as Puffo, had forgotten all about the cares of this vile world.

“Very good,” said M. Goefle to Christian, who met him in the court, and brought him to see this touching spectacle; “as long as the little rascal is not ill, I am very well satisfied not to have to wait upon him.”

“But what am I to do, M. Goefle?” said Christian, in a great deal of perplexity; “I can’t do without this beast of a Puffo. I have shaken him, but in vain. He’s dead for the present. I know him; he won’t be himself for ten or twelve hours.”

“Pshaw, pshaw!” answered M. Goefle, who was evidently preoccupied; “go and select your piece, and don’t trouble yourself; a smart fellow like you is never at a loss.”

And leaving Christian to get out of his difficulties as he best might, he walked on with his usual short, quick, determined step, straight to the pavilion, in the new gaard which Stenson occupied. Evidently the three verses of the Bible were whirling about busily in his head.

The lower floor of this pavilion was a sort of vestibule, which Ulphilas, who was afraid of being alone, preferred to his own lodging, and where he slept under the pretence of being at hand to wait upon his uncle, whose great age needed constant attendance. Ulph had just come into this vestibule, and had thrown himself down upon his bed, where he was already fast asleep and snoring. M. Goefle was about ascending to the upper floor, when he was arrested by the sound of voices in conversation. Two persons were talking, with great animation, in Italian. The voice of one of them was pitched in a high key, as is often the case with deaf persons, who cannot themselves hear what they are saying; this was Stenson. He spoke the language with a good deal of facility, but with a detestable accent, and very incorrectly. The other person, who was speaking pure Italian in a noticeably clear voice, and with a very distinct pronunciation, seemed to make himself heard, in spite of the old man’s deafness. M. Goefle was very much surprised to find that Stenson understood Italian, and could express himself in it either well or ill, for he did not know that he had ever had any occasion to use it. The conversation was being carried on in Stenson’s office, which opened into his sleeping-room. The door at the head of the stairs was closed; but M. Goefle, taking a few steps up, heard a fragment of the dialogue, in substance as follows:

“No,” said Stenson, “you are mistaken. The baron has no interest in making this discovery.”

“Possibly, M. Steward,” replied the unknown; “but it will not cost me anything to ascertain.”

“Then you propose to sell the secret to the highest bidder?”

“Perhaps so. What do you offer?”

“Nothing! I am poor, because I have always been honest and disinterested. I do not even own anything in this place. I have only my life. You may take that, if you choose.”

At these words, which seemed to imply that old Stenson was at the mercy of some bandit, M. Goefle sprang up two more steps at a stride, to come to the rescue; but the Italian resumed, with perfect composure:

“What should I do with that, Monsieur Stenson? Come, take courage! you can get yourself out of the difficulty by looking up some of your old crowns in your old box. Old people always have one. You found the means of paying Manasses, so as to secure his discretion.”

“Manasses was an honest man. That salary--”

“Was not intended for him, I have no doubt; but he thought otherwise, for he always kept it for himself alone.”

“You are slandering him.”

“Well, whether that is so or not, he is dead; and the other--”

“He is dead, too. I know it.”

“You know it! How do you know it?”

“I am not obliged to say. But I am certain that he is dead, and you can tell the baron anything you please. I am not afraid of you. Adieu! I have not long to live, so leave me to prepare for another world; it is the only thing that I occupy myself about. Adieu! Leave me, I tell you. I have no money.”

“That is your last word, is it? You know that within two hours I shall have taken service with the baron?”

“That makes no difference to me.”

“You don’t suppose I have come so far to be paid with nothing but such talk?”

“Do whatever you choose.”

The door now opened, and M. Goefle stepped resolutely up towards the person who came out. He found himself confronting a man who seemed about thirty years of age, and who was quite handsome, though his face was singularly pale, and forbidding in expression. The lawyer’s eyes met the stranger’s as they passed close to each other on the narrow stairway; the gaze of the former was open, severe, and scrutinizing; that of the latter, oblique and distrustful. The unknown, however, bowed civilly, and passed down to the foot of the stairs, while M. Goefle proceeded to the top; but having reached those points, both turned for another look, and the advocate was struck with something diabolical in the sallow face below him gleaming in the light of the small lamp that hung before the inner door of the vestibule. On entering Stenson’s room he found him seated with his head resting on his hands, as motionless as a statue, so that he was obliged to touch his arm to make known his presence. Even then, such was the old man’s abstraction, that he looked up with a stupefied air; it was some moments before he recognized his visitor and recovered his presence of mind. Recollecting himself at last, he arose with a great effort and saluted M. Goefle with his usual politeness, inquiring after his health, and offering his own chair, which the lawyer, however, declined. On taking his hand, he found it warm and wet, either with perspiration or with tears. M. Goefle was deeply moved; he felt a great esteem and affection for Sten, and always treated him with the respect that was the proper tribute to his age and character. It was easy to see that the old man had passed through a terrible crisis, and that he had endured it with dignity; but what could this secret be which this stranger with the suspicious face and cynical language appeared to be holding suspended, like the sword of Damocles, over his head?

Stenson had by this time recovered his usual grave, and rather cold and ceremonious, demeanor. He had never been companionable with any one. Whether from pride or shyness, he was as reserved with people whom he had known thirty years, as with those whom he met for the first time; and he was in the habit, moreover, of replying in monosyllables to all questions, the most important as well as the most trifling; knowing this, M. Goefle had been the more surprised at his connected conversation with the unknown, which he had overheard.

“I did not know that you had come to Waldemora, M. Goefle,” he said; “is it about the lawsuit?”

“Yes, the baron’s suit with his neighbor of Elfdalen, who, I think, may be in the right of it; I have advised the baron to arrange the affair, without pushing it to a legal decision. Can you hear me, M. Stenson?”

“Yes, monsieur, perfectly.”

As the old man, from an excess of politeness, always made this reply whether he heard or not, M. Goefle, who was determined to have some conversation with him, put his mouth to his ear, and took pains to articulate every syllable very distinctly, but he soon saw that this precaution was less necessary now than had been the case in former years. Stenson’s deafness, far from having increased, seemed to be sensibly diminished. M. Goefle congratulated Sten on this, but he shook his head, and said:

“It is temporary only; it changes a great deal. To-day I hear everything.”

“Does not this occur when you have experienced some strong emotion?” asked M. Goefle.

Stenson looked at the lawyer with surprise, and, after hesitating a moment, made this answer--which was no answer at all:

“I am nervous--extremely nervous.”

“Might I inquire,” asked M. Goefle, “who the man was whom I just met going out from here?”

“I do not know.”

“Did you not ask his name?”

“He is an Italian.”

“But what is his name?”

“He said it was Guido.”

“Does he propose to enter the baron’s service?”

“Possibly.”

“He has a bad face.”

“Do you think so?”

“However, it will not be the only one about the baron.”

Stenson gave no sign of assent, and his face remained unpassable. It was not easy to enter into conversation on delicate and confidential topics with a man whose ceremonious bearing seemed constantly to say, “Talk of your own business to me, not of mine.” But M. Goefle was urged on by the demon of curiosity, and would not allow himself to be repulsed.

“This Italian was talking to you rather rudely,” he said with abruptness.

“Do you think so?” replied the old man, with an air of indifference.

“I heard him while I was coming up stairs.”

Sten’s face showed some traces of emotion, but he asked no question betraying any uneasiness at what M. Goefle might have heard.

“He was threatening you,” added the latter.

“With what?” asked Stenson, shrugging his shoulders; “I am so old--”

“He threatened to reveal something to the baron, which it is greatly to your interest to keep concealed.”

Stenson remained perfectly quiet, as if he had not heard. M. Goefle persisted:

“Who is this Manasses who is dead?”

The same silence upon Stenson’s part, while his impenetrable eyes, fixed on M. Goefle, seemed to say, “If you know, why do you ask?”

“And _the other_,” the advocate went on, “what other was he speaking of?”

“Were you listening, M. Goefle?” questioned the old man in his turn, with a tone of extreme deference, but in which there was a distinct accent of disapproval.

The advocate felt some embarrassment, but his consciousness of his good intentions reassured him.

“Are you surprised, M. Stenson,” he asked, after a pause, “that when I suddenly heard an unknown voice speaking to you in a threatening tone, I should have approached to help you, if necessary?”

Stenson held out to M. Goefle his aged, wrinkled hand, which had become cold once more.

His lips moved for some moments without uttering a sound--a natural action with a person unaccustomed to talking, and struggling to overcome his habitual reserve; but he hesitated so long, that M. Goefle, to encourage him, said:

“My dear M. Stenson, there is a secret oppressing you, and you are in serious danger in consequence.”

Stenson sighed, and replied laconically:

“I am an honest man, M. Goefle!”

“And yet,” answered the lawyer, with emphasis, “your conscience--a pious and sensitive one--is reproaching you for something!”

“Something?” repeated Stenson, with an air mild and yet firm, as much as to say, “Let me hear what you can allege against me!”

“You have, at least, to fear the vengeance of the baron?”

“No,” answered Stenson, with sudden decision of tone, “I know what the doctor told me.”

“Has the doctor given him up? Is his complaint so much advanced as that? I saw him this morning. He looked to me as if he might last a good while.”

“For months,” replied Stenson, “and I may last for years. I consulted the doctor yesterday; I do so every year.”

“You are waiting for his death, then, to reveal something of importance. But you are aware that he is said to be capable of having people whom he is afraid of assassinated. What do you think on that subject?”

Stenson answered by a look of surprise, which M. Goefle thought unquestionably assumed, for it was succeeded immediately by an expression of repressed anxiety. Stenson knew how to restrain himself, but not how to dissimulate.

“Stenson,” said the lawyer, with the energy of genuine sincerity, as he took both the old man’s hands in his, “I tell you again, some oppressive secret is weighing upon you. Open your heart to me as a friend. You may rely upon me, if there is an injustice to be made good.”

Stenson hesitated for some moments; then, taking a key from his pocket, he opened, in an agitated manner, a drawer of his desk, and, showing M. Goefle a small sealed box, he said:

“Your word of honor?”

“I give it you!”

“And upon the holy Bible?”

“Upon the holy Bible--now then?--”

“Well, then, if I die before _him_, open, read, and act. But only after I am dead.”

M. Goefle glanced at the box, and saw his own name and address upon it.

“You had already chosen me for this trust,” he said; “I thank you for it, my friend, but, if your life is threatened, why not tell me the whole at once? There, dear M. Stenson, I am beginning to open my eyes! The baron--”

Stenson made a sign that he would not answer.

“He starved his sister-in-law to death!”

“No,” cried Stenson, with the emphasis of truth, “no, no! That was not the case!”

“But that declaration respecting her pregnancy--she was forced to sign it.”

“She signed voluntarily, of her own free-will. I was present, and signed it also myself.”

“But what became of her body? Was it thrown to the dogs?”

“Oh, my God! Was I not there? It was buried with religious services.”

“By you?”

“By my own hands. But you are inquisitive! Give me the box!”

“Do you doubt my oath?”

“No,” replied the old man; “keep it--and ask me no more questions.”

He once more pressed M. Goefle’s hands, took a seat near the fire, and, either in reality or by design, relapsed into entire deafness. M. Goefle, to divert his mind, and hoping, after a little, to draw him again into a confidential mood, endeavored to talk with him about the lawsuit on which the baron had consulted him in the morning. But this time he was obliged to write what he wanted to say, when the old man answered with his usual clearness. His opinion was that the mineral property of the mountain-track in litigation belonged to the Count de Rosenstein, a neighbor of the baron. He stated good grounds for this belief, and, after searching among his papers, which were all arranged and marked with the greatest care, he laid out the actual proofs. M. Goefle observed that this was his own opinion, and that he should be forced to have a disagreement with the baron, if the latter should persist in seeking to employ him in a bad cause. He added some reflections as to the presumed wicked character of his client, but Stenson showed no signs of understanding these allusions; and as it is impossible to take a person by surprise in a written conversation, M. Goefle had to give up the idea of questioning him further.